Volume Vi Part 33 (1/2)
”No, Highlandman! I will not fly My own beloved border; For poort.i.th dwells and famine pales In your Highlands of disorder.
”I will not wed a Gael-- His house is but a s.h.i.+eling; Oh, best unborn, than all forlorn Mid your crags to have my dwelling!”
”The house I call mine own house, A better was not born in; And land and sea will smile on thee, In the Highlands of thy scorning.
”I do not boast the wheaten wealth Of our glens and hills, my dearie!
But enow is health, and gra.s.s is wealth, In the land of mead and dairy.
”I 've store of kine, my darling, Nor any lilting sweeter Thine ear can know, than is their low, And the music of the bleater.
”I have no s.h.i.+p on ocean With merchant treasure sailing; But my tight boat, and trusty net, Whole loads of fish are trailing.
”And, for dress, is none, my beauty, Than the tartan plaiding warmer, For its colours bright, oh, what delight To see them deck my charmer!
”And ne'er was Highland welcome More hearty than thy greeting, Each day, the rein, and courteous swain, Thy pleasure will be meeting.
”And thou shalt wear the healthy hue That give the Highland breezes, And not a bird but will be heard To sing the song that pleases.
”No summer morn is blyther, With all its burst of glory, Than the heaving breast, that, uncaress'd, Pined--shall, caress'd, adore thee.”
”Stay, Highlander! my heart, my hand, My vow and all I render, A Highland lay has won the day, And I will hie me yonder.”
JOHN MACDONALD, JUN.
John Macdonald, author of the following song, is described in ”Mackenzie's Collection” as having rented the farm of Scoraig, Lochbroom, and subsequently fixed his residence in the island of Lewis.
The present translation is from the pen of Mr D. Macpherson of London.
MARY, THE FAIR OF GLENSMOLE.
Sweet the rising mountains, red with heather bells, Sweet the bubbling fountains and the dewy dells, Sweet the snowy blossom of the th.o.r.n.y tree, Sweeter is young Mary of Glensmole to me.
Sweet, oh, sweet! with Mary o'er the wilds to stray, When Glensmole is dress'd in all the pride of May; And, when weary roving through the greenwood glade, Softly to recline beneath the birken shade.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
There to fix my gaze in raptures of delight, On her eyes of truth, of love, of life, of light; On her bosom, purer than the silver tide, Fairer than the _cana_ on the mountain side.
Sweet the rising mountains, &c.
What were all the sounds contrived by tuneful men, To the warbling wild notes of the sylvan glen?
Here the merry lark ascends on dewy wing, There the mellow mavis and the blackbird sing.